Thirteen from 40
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: Modern day cop!verse AU. Carrying on a grand Pike tradition, Ethan Pike learns the hard way that sometimes, words hurt far worse than bullets. Luckily for him, Leonard McCoy is both realistic…and forgiving. Rating for language only.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**: I swear to you this story began life as a crack fic based off that 'Facebook Parenting for the Troubled Teen' video that went viral a couple of years back. (Epic in and of itself – I suggest you watch it if you've not seen it.) But then the muses started giving me other ideas, and they were so good I couldn't ignore them. Thirty pages later, this is the result. I do sincerely apologize that it's taken me a couple of years to post this one – it was done but unedited for the longest time. If not for the constant badgering of Chameleon777, I might never have made myself look it over to post.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Star Trek, but I do own this idea. That counts for something, right? _Right?_ Oh, well. You can't blame a girl for trying.

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Tick, tick, tick.

Ethan Pike sat at his desk in his bedroom and stared at the clock on the wall. Outside his door, the sharp staccato of each tick rattled off by the antique timepiece on the living room mantle reminded him of the barking retort of a .357 revolver. He tapped the pen he clenched in his right hand nervously against the notebook laying open on his desk while his left knee bounced up and down. Concentrate. Figure it out. Get it done. _Prepare_.

Tick, tick, tick.

It was like listening to a death march, like he was waiting his life come to a brutal and abrupt end. Ethan normally wasn't a kid with a penchant toward melodrama, but if there ever was a day to be worried, it was this particular day on the calendar.

Today was the day the freshman class' midterm grades were released.

His were graciously describable as – ahem – _subpar_.

He knew this day was coming. But for the past few weeks and even privy to the inevitably awful outcome, he still couldn't bring himself to give a shit. He'd heard it all from his teachers, and quite frankly, Ethan was sick and tired of the pitying looks and the scolding tones. If he heard one more adult tell him, "You're such a smart boy…" while they wagged a finger in his face, he swore someone might come back missing a vital body part. He was well aware they were baiting him, and in any other circumstance, he would have taken the challenge and risen to the occasion. But instead, he mentally checked out in every sense of the phrase. Apathetic, Ethan was fully aware that his inability to concentrate coupled with an overwhelming sense of despair was about to lead straight to a very upset father and one of his patented Come to Jesus talks.

Ethan didn't expect it to go well.

The sound of the garage door opening signaled the teen's last few moments of life. He heard his father pull the city-issued car into the garage, cut the engine and open the door leading in to the kitchen. Heavy, booted footsteps marched in urgent cadence from the garage, through the kitchen and down the hall. As Chris made a beeline straight for his son's room, Ethan steeled himself as his father's easily distinguishable stride stopped outside his bedroom door. Without bothering with something as polite as a knock, Pike threw open the door and barged into his son's personal space.

"Do you care to explain this, young man?" Chris scolded without any kind of greeting, his tone low and menacing while he held up the damning evidence in his balled-up right fist. In his full uniform and with his lips pursed, Pike stood just inside the doorway of Ethan's bedroom. Paper crinkled as the lieutenant shook his arm back and forth, waving the proof of failure in his son's face.

"My grades?" Ethan snorted apathetically. Outwardly aloof, he tried to settle the butterflies in his stomach before he answered. "You can read, can't you?" Seated in front of his desk, the young man twisted back and forth on his swiveling chair as he crossed his arms over his chest. Bright blue eyes, identical to his father's and nearly hidden by a frock of sandy blonde hair, glared defiantly up at the older man a few feet away.

"Yes I can, and I really don't like what I see!" Chris exclaimed, taking two quick strides across the room before he slapped the piece of paper down on Ethan's desktop. He leaned heavily on his arms and inched his face into his offspring's personal space.

Staring blankly ahead, Ethan raised his left index finger and gently pushed on the handle of his father's service weapon. "Your gun is going to whack me in the nose. Back up," he said in a bored, uncaring voice.

"You have a lot of balls to say something like that to me, Ethan. You're lucky I'm not about to shoot you with it," he growled. Titling his head, his gaze bored into his son's before he added, "You're failing four classes, you have a D plus in social studies, and your best grade is a C minus in choir. Son, when I was in school, we got a C in music if we could find our seat! This is absolutely unacceptable!"

Shrugging, the younger Pike simply rolled his eyes. "Guess I'm screwed then."

Chris threw his hands up in the air. "What the hell happened to you? Don't you even care?"

Undeterred, the young man fired right back at his father, "I don't know. You tell me. Should I?"

"I would certainly hope so!" Pike answered, pulling out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his uniform trousers. Disgusted, he unfurled the page and threw it on the desktop right next to the damning midterm report, tapping an irritated finger on top of the lengthy list printed neatly in black and white. "This is a list of all your missing work I had your teachers send me after I calmed down from the heart attack your report gave me. You have done _nothing_ this semester!"

"I showed up. Didn't you always say that's eighty percent of life?" Ethan said, sarcasm and frustrating dripping from his tone.

Pike's face began to take on a pinkish hue as his blood pressure spiked. Pointing the index finger of his left had towards Ethan, he said in a low, menacing voice, "Don't you dare do that."

"What? Quote what you always tell me? Must be nice to be able to pick and choose when to apply all those little great tidbits of advice when it's convenient for you, Dad!" Ethan yelled, hopping out of his chair to bring himself face to face with his father.

"Ethan," Pike warned while he took an unconscious step towards his son. He made a conscious effort to steady his voice, slow his heart rate and even out his blood pressure before he replied, "You need to answer my question."

The teen knew his tone was about to drop into the realm of juvenile, but Ethan didn't really care. All he wanted was his father the hell out of his face. Snidely, he let his lip twitch while he responded with, "What if I don't want to care? It's all crap anyway."

"Your schoolwork is not 'crap' and if you want any chance at taking your driver's test next year on your birthday, you had better figure out an explanation for all this," Chris said as he ran a hand through his greying hair. "Jesus."

"I am so _sick_ of you and mom hanging every little thing over my head!" Ethan finally exploded. "Every time I do something even remotely wrong, it's, 'You're not going to play hockey here,' or, 'Forget about the police explorer trip,' there! It's such fucking bullshit!"

"Watch you language!"

Ethan snorted sarcastically. "Once again, pot, meet the kettle. Have you even listened to the shit that comes out of your own mouth? I was swearing in context at age four because of you and your friends!" Ethan fired back. Before his father could open his mouth to rebut, the teen added snidely, "Sucks when your old standby plays don't work anymore, doesn't it?"

Growling under his breath, Chris checked his watch. He waved an emphatic left hand sharply through the air, effectively putting and end to his half of the conversation. "I am not doing this with you now. I just came home on meal to see if, on the off chance, you'd man up and tell me what's going on."

Ethan wandered over to his bed, all but collapsing on it when Chris turned his back. The teen slouched, laid his left leg straight out in front of him and pulled his right leg back in a hurdler's stretch position. Picking at a callous on his toe, he tilted his head and glared up at his father. "You're running out on me again? What is it this time? Wait, let me guess. Starts with Mc and ends with Coy."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, that's it."

"Hmm. That's kind of funny, _Lieutenant_," the teen began, stressing his father's rank. "I don't understand why you have work today when I saw the duty roster two weeks ago. You know – the one that _you_ made? It said that you're supposed to have today off, along with yesterday and tomorrow. But you worked yesterday, you're on today, and I'll bet you're on call tomorrow. Gonna tell me why you're covering your sergeant's shifts again?" Ethan asked, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.

"He needs the help," Chris answered flatly.

Rolling his eyes, the teen tossed his hands up in the air. His palms slapped the tops of his thighs hard while he replied, "Oh. Great. That's an awesome answer! It's totally one you would accept from me."

"That's different!" Pike shouted as his anger started to rise again.

Ethan scoffed. "How? How is your bullshit any different from my bullshit?! Explain that to me, O Great Knowing One."

"Because it just _is_, Ethan! There are a lot of things you don't know about – don't _need_ to know about – with Len right now, so just leave it alone. You owe him that much."

"I owe him?" the teen answered incredulously while he pointed to his own chest in disbelief. "That's rich. You are such a fucking hypocrite, you know that?!"

Chris took a step, leaned down, and put his face a literal inch from his son's. A low, nearly feral snarl made its way from deep in Chris' chest while his jaw flicked back and forth. Rage boiled just below the surface, excising itself by the clenching and unclenching fists at Pike's sides. He pointed one hand right at Ethan's eye level when he warned in a low, hissed whisper, "You are on thin ice, Mister. And if you knew the implications of what you just said, you would eat those words and beg for forgiveness."

"See, I might feel bad if I actually knew what the hell was going on every time you and mom disappear. But since you won't tell, me, I just had to figure it out on my own. And I have. I'm not blind, Dad, or stupid. He's a drunk. I get it. Can we move on now?"

Raising his voice to the tone he often used on the street, Pike barked out, "Ethan Christopher Pike, you are so far out of line right now it's not even funny. We will talk about this when I get home. Until then, you are to sit here, do your homework and catch up with the laundry list of overdue assignments all your teachers emailed me. Goodnight, son."

Ethan felt his bedroom rattle when Chris slammed the door on his way out. The footsteps retreated, followed by the sound of his father's unmarked revving higher than what was probably acceptable as the older man pulled out of the driveway. Ethan let out the unconscious breath he was holding, collapsed back into the soft pillows on his bed and groaned out loud. Rubbing his hands across his face, he scratched his head and muttered, "And fuck you very much, too."

Yeah, that went well.

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**Next Up**: Chekov attempts to lend a hand and things go horribly, spectacularly, unexpectedly _wrong._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: I think this chapter is Chekov's first serious appearance in the cop!verse. I know he showed up for a line or two in Defining Family, but he has a little more prominent role in this story as Ethan's BFF. I have an intro story for him (and I"m completely in love with the ideas) but I, predictably, just have to find some time to finish it. Anyway, enjoy this little bit!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Since I've stressed over my monthly $200-$250 natural gas bill from November through this month, I cannot, by extension make any money from my wiring. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"You appear troubled, my friend."

"'Troubled' ain't the word," Ethan replied flatly as he focused his attention on the game at hand. The teen's tongue squirted out the corner of his mouth as he repeatedly mashed the R1 button the Playstation controller cradled in his hands. The sound of fairly realistic fully automatic M4A1 fire resonated through the room as Ethan's character moved, stealthy and silent, from building to building. He cleared behind doors and up on balconies, making quick work of anyone who got in his way. Even the sniper, lying perfectly still on the metal grid plating under the landmark Pripyat Ferris wheel, was easy pickings. The subwoofer connected to the sound system rattled against the wood floor as an RPG roared overhead, right before the ordinance exploded off screen. Excited shouts from the AI players folded around the pair as they sat in front of the television stationed in Ethan's room.

As the 'victory' symbol flashed up on the screen, Pavel set his controller in his lap and stretched. He reached for the can of Coke sitting on the floor next to him and took a long drink. He tilted his head up towards the bed on which his friend was laying and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "You are preoccupied. I am aware of this look. What is it that has been worrying you, my friend?"

Ethan rolled onto his back and let his head fall backwards off the edge of the bed. He laid his hands on his chest and gnawed carefully on his lip while he thought. "School, man. It's killing me."

"How is it possible that school kills? Has someone brought a weapon to the classroom?" Chekov asked, his voice pitching up higher with the sentence. "Ay. American schools are much more dangerous than in Russia."

Rolling his eyes, Ethan tossed the controller near the pillow of his bed and sat up. He ran a couple of hands through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp with his fingertips. "No, dude. No one's brought a weapon to school. Well, unless you count my dad, when he goes to meet with my teachers about my grades. But he's more likely to use that .40 on me."

"I assume your midterm was…how to say it? Unkind?"

"It was fucking brutal," Ethan replied, pushing himself up from his bed. He wandered across the room to his desk and grabbed both the midterm report his father rudely left and the litany of missing assignments. Shoving both in Pavel's surprised hands, the youngest Pike added, "That is what I'm supposed to be catching up on tonight."

Chekov's pale eyes scanned the pages quickly and efficiently as his genius brain processed each piece of information. As he read, his eyebrows climbed higher up his forehead. Open, gaping shock was the only proper term of applicability, and in his traditionally innocent way, Pavel shoved the sheets aside and stated, "'Supposed to' and 'doing' are clearly two separate things," he said, catching the despondent expression on his friend's face. "There is no shame in asking for help when needed. We have already wasted much time."

"Yeah, but Modern Warfare is so much cooler. Besides, it's Friday. Who the hell does homework on Friday night?" Ethan asked nonchalantly.

"I do," Chekov replied, shaking his head and holding up his hands as he clamored to his feet to retrieve Ethan's abandoned computer.

Ethan's smile belied the seriousness of his tone, despite the dour mood his father's lecture put him in. He shoved Chekov playfully with his foot. "Besides you, numbnuts. And anyway, your idea of 'doing homework' is breezing right through it all with, like, no effort at all. Some of us," Ethan began with a dramatic motion towards his own chest, "Actually have to work at this shit just to pass."

"I work hard," Pavel muttered quietly as he turned a nice shade of pink.

"I know you do! You're doing upper level undergraduate college courses while the rest of us peons are toiling through high school classes that you could do passed out drunk," Ethan answered with a bright, genuine smile on his face. When Pavel folded himself back up on the floor, Ethan clapped his best friend on the arm before he sobered. Plopping despondently on the bed, he exhaled a big breath that fluffed the tuft of hair that constantly hung over his face. The younger Pike stared off into space as he added whimsically, "I wish there was a way I could borrow your genius. For times like this, it would be nice."

"If it were possible, I would lend it to you." Pointing to the sheets he'd set down on the floor, Chekov asked sheepishly, "Why are your grades so low? It is not like you to be so irresponsible."

"Hell if I know."

The disapproving look on Chekov's face made it plain the young man wasn't buying the excuse, but the shifting of his jaw also said he was ready to let it pass for now. "Yes, well, regardless of the reason, it is more important to me that I help you with what I can."

"Help me how?" Ethan answered, throwing his hands up in the air. "I'm so far behind, I'm just ready to write this whole semester off as a loss and call it good. Maybe when I really do fail all my classes, my dad will finally have a real reason to keep running off on me. It would be better than what's he's doing now when he makes up some lame-ass excuse to cover yet another shift for his drama queen sergeant."

Pavel, with his hands around Ethan's laptop, stopped in mid-motion. He tapped the fingertips of his right hand against the hard, plastic surface and scrunched up his face in confusion. "I thought you were friendly with the men your father supervises."

"I was, until a few months ago. And it's really only one guy that's a problem, if you can even call it that," Ethan replied with a passive shrug of his shoulders. Suddenly, the rug under his legs looked mightily entertaining. Under his best friend's scrupulous gaze, he started picking at the red fringe with gusto.

Chekov inched his way over towards his best friend and set the computer on the floor between the two boys. Pulling his knees up to his chest, the young Russian asked, "What has been happening?"

"You know one of the guys who brought us home last year after-" Ethan began before he was cut off by Pavel's hand.

"Yes, I know. After we did something wery stupid with that scraper. I remember," he said, cringing. "My parents have not let me forget that."

"I'll bet," Ethan laughed out, thinking of how angry his father was when he found out what his son had been up to. He sobered when his brain conjured up images from just a few hours previous. The look on Chris' face while he was lecturing his son for failing out of school was anything _but_ comical. It was deadly serious. Clearing his throat, Ethan said, "Anyway, one of the guys that brought us home that night – the older one – I know it has to do with him. McCoy's been hanging around my family every since I can remember, and about six months ago, he just stopped coming by. Like, I haven't seen him in ages."

"I do not follow. What does this have to do with your grades?"

"I'm getting there, I promise. Just hang with me, dude." Ethan got up and grabbed the bag of salt and vinegar potato chips he kept stashed in his desk drawer. Opening them, he crunched loudly while he continued, "A couple of months ago, I heard Dad and Mom arguing one night when they thought I'd left for baseball practice. They were fighting about how to handle a situation. I didn't put it together then, but I know it has something to do with Len."

Chekov stuffed his hand into the bag of chips and shoved a handful into his mouth. "You are sure?" he asked through powdered cheese flavoring.

"Yeah, man. You know my parents – they get along pretty well, but this was a huge, yelling, swearing, screaming fight. Like, I've never heard them that mad at one another. Mom was accusing Dad of not caring, and Dad was telling Mom that she needed to step back, or whatever the fuck that means. All I know is that they worked it out, and a couple of weeks later, Dad's got a ton of extra shifts to cover, and my Mom's all but disappeared," Ethan concluded, dropping his chin to his chest. He rolled his eyes and amended, "And it sucks."

Pavel nodded sadly. "Have you asked them what they've been doing?"

"I've tried, but every time I do, I get the same answer." Ethan dropped his voice as far as it would go, and in a weak impression of his father's impressive, booming baritone, said sarcastically, "'It's not your concern, son. It's all under control, so don't worry about it', my ass. Mom gives me the same party line, just in a nicer package."

"So, you feel like they have forgotten about you, da?" Chekov said with a deep sigh.

"Pretty much. So you can see how it's kind of hard to give a shit about anything when no one around you feels like you're worthy enough to know," Ethan finished with a snort and a wave of his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a long breath. "Whatever. I don't even care anymore."

"Yes, you do. Otherwise, you would not be so upset, and we would not be having this conversation," Chekov replied, patting his friend on the shoulder. He titled his body forward and reached for Ethan's laptop. Pavel brought it back over and set it between the two friends. Flipping the cover open, he rubbed his hands together and said brightly, "Now. Let us try and catch you up on some of this outstanding work. Where is that list?"

From the corner of his mouth, Ethan smirked. "You're a persistent pain in the ass, you know that? Thanks, Pavel. I owe you."

"And I will collect. Just not now," the Russian answered with a mischievous twinkle shining through his eyes. "And there will be no jail this time."

Ethan threw his head back and barked out a laugh. "Deal!" Grabbing his laptop, Ethan punched in his password. The Windows welcome screen ticked and hummed, the little greenish-blue circle spinning in an endless circle of nothing. Jabbing at the machine in frustration, Ethan grumbled, "God, why is this thing running so slow?"

Elbowing his way into his best friend's personal space, Pavel pressed a couple of keys on the keyboard once the computer finally loaded. He searched and clicked, moving way too fast for Ethan's comprehension. A satisfied little grunt made its way past his lips while he pointed to the system specifications laid out on the screen. "You just need more RAM. The programs are too big for the little amount of memory you have."

"Whatever you say. Is that hard to do?" Ethan asked. He started feeling a little flutter in his stomach as he thought about the pain involved with maintaining anything electronic.

"Nyet. I can fix it for you, but not today. I need parts."

"That's cool. Let me see if I can get Dad to pay for it first. That'd be the best way to go. In the meantime, I guess I could try and do something productive." He brushed his fingers over the black track pad as he tried to find the cursor to close his Facebook page. After a couple of pointless revolutions and a little bit of cursing, he managed to sign out of the social networking site while he cruised through his emails.

It was a shame Ethan didn't see that he accidentally hit 'post' on a very large, very long, very formidable entry that wasn't meant for the world to see.

* * *

**Next Up**: Either he's dreaming, or it's a cold day in hell because Jim Kirk actually proves he has maturity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: I'm really sorry for the week between postings, everyone. Real life is kind of hectic this month through the 15th of April (tax filing deadline in the US). I'm really hoping to have this story completely posted before then, but if I don't, please know that it's only because I'm super busy and don't have the time. Anyway, done blabbering. Enjoy chapter three. As always, reviews are loved, but never required.

**Disclaimer**: I can't make the IRS any nicer any more than they can develop personalities. So, because I don't have a magic wand to wave, I therefore cannot own Star Trek. I do this only for entertainment and make no money from my work.

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**Chapter 3**

Strangely, James Tiberius Kirk was actually beginning to feel like an adult.

And he thought it flat-out sucked.

Kirk's anointed role, the one that he'd readily accepted from Pike, was that of resident pain in the ass. Every police department needed one. He was the one his superiors fretted over, yelled at, disciplined, and occasionally, after all the aforementioned acts were done, praised. He was responsible for aging the shift's lieutenant ten years, and would quite probably scare Greg Serdeski into a heart attack before retirement simply for the hell of it.

Jim used to joke about the high probability of his actions driving McCoy to drink. He'd lost count of how many times Bones muttered, 'You're going to be the death of me, kid,' after Kirk did something ballsy, stupid and probably incredibly brave. He used to think the heroics were just part of the job, just like 'part of the job' was tipping back a couple of beers after the conclusion of shift with his partner at their favorite watering hole. Jim was good at partying it up, but a little bit of maturity taught him how to do it at the appropriate times. He really had no idea when two became five and five became ten for McCoy. All he knew was that he screwed the pooch on Bones' behalf, and screwed it hard.

So now, it was Jim's turn to be the adult. Without McCoy in the car to act as his voice of reason, Kirk was forced to rely on his own instincts, and the training Bones managed to drill into his thick skull before his temporary lay-off. The sergeant must have done something right, because not only was Jim still alive and well, he was voluntarily hanging out at the station after shift on a Saturday night in order to fix his boss' son's computer. Indeed, it was a cold day in hell.

But it wasn't all out of the goodness of his heart. It was a win-win; Pike saved some cash by utilizing Jim to do the work, and Kirk could count on a twelve-pack of beer thrown his way in reciprocation. Plus, he really wanted an update on McCoy, one he could only obtain away from the prying eyes and listening ears of an operating police station. As popular as Bones was within the department, there were still a few cops within the ranks who would have loved the knowledge Kirk and Pike possessed, and Jim would be damned if he was about to feed the scuttlebutt machine. McCoy had enough to worry about on his own.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I think I actually miss listening to Bones' bitching," Kirk admitted while he turned the silver and black notebook computer over a couple of times and inspected the battery placement, memory bay door and keyboard design.

Pike didn't bother to even look up. Instead, he nodded his head in time with the beat of AC/DC's 'Shoot to Thrill' playing from the speakers on his desk. With a grumble, the lieutenant tapped an errant, rolling screw with the tip of his pen towards the pile of technological junk surrounding Jim. "I hear that," he answered after a long pause, shooting Kirk and annoyed glance while he looked pointedly at the state of disarray that was his desk.

Undaunted (or uncaring, it was hard to tell which), Jim ignored his boss' gaze and stared straight ahead at the wall. Introspective, he said, "It's kind of sad. I used to think that it would be nice to go home from one shift without more hearing damage in my left ear, courtesy of Bones talking it off. You know I contemplated using my outdoor range ears just to tune him out when we're in the car together?"

"Might have been the first smart thing you've done your whole life, Kirk. But I doubt it would have worked. McCoy's too loud for those little things to have any effect. Nice idea, but not enough noise reduction."

Jim set the screwdriver he was holding down on the desk and held the laptop loosely against his thighs. Leveling a disapproving glance in Pike's direction, he said, "Funny, Lieu," with more joy than he felt. Jim sighed, brushed a hand through his hair and dropped his head. Quieter, he added forlornly, "But really, the lack of hum there right now is just weird."

Pike finally broke concentration and looked up from the report lying open across his desk. Reader glasses slipping down his nose, he reached up and grabbed them from his face. He clasped his hands in front on his mouth and smiled sadly, his face awash with a mixture of pity and empathy for his younger patrolman. He tilted his head to the side and agreed, "It's not the same without his constant commentary on the sorry state of the world, is it?"

Kirk set the plastic housing on the table, took a swig of rapidly cooling coffee from the mug and gently removed the battery from the laptop. Setting it down on top the files in Pike's inbox, Jim grunted to the affirmative. "No, man. It's just…boring."

"Yeah," Pike agreed with a despondent, distracted sigh as he tried in vain to finish his reports.

Going back to his project, Jim allowed the companionable silence take over the room. He made quick work of the stick accessible through the memory bay door, replacing the outdated RAM with ease. He closed the hatch, flipped the computer over and fidgeted with the keyboard access. After a couple of seconds of finessing, he was able to pry off the shroud that hid the keyboard screws. Kirk was reaching for a mini Phillips when his hands abruptly stopped moving.

Pike caught the unexpected all-stop and halted his work, giving Kirk his undivided attention. It was rare when he saw trepidation in the brash young officer's eyes, but the uncertainty flittering through was as plain to him as the night sky. Tilting his head to the side, he folded his hands on top of his desk and asked, "What is, Jim? Spit it out, son."

Kirk turned the screwdriver in his hand over a half dozen times, trying to find the right words. He chewed nervously at his lower lip hard enough to draw a faint river of blood from one of the chapped cracks littering the surface. Finally, he looked Pike in the eye and responded with, "How is he? Have you seen Bones today?"

Knowing exactly what Kirk meant, Chris inwardly flinched. He felt badly for Jim. Kirk, the one person who understood the unfairness of life as much or more than any other person in the department; Kirk, the seemingly immature kid who only wanted to help; Kirk the best man for the job – was the one McCoy cut completely out of his life when alcohol became his main (and only) concern. But Jim – bless him – hadn't shown any signs that he was ready to throw in the proverbial towel and write McCoy off as a lost cause. No matter how nasty Len's tirades were, no matter how low, Kirk was always right there, offering whatever he could and doing it with a smile.

Pike knew Jim was hurting; he'd have to have been blind to miss it. Even if he tried to play it off as if it were no big deal, as if McCoy's personal and snide insults didn't cut straight to the core, Chris could see the pain in Jim's eyes every time Len dragged something up from Kirk's past that Jim didn't particularly care to rehash. There had been a couple of moments in the past few months that Chris thought the partners might come to blows, but Jim showed surprising maturity and restraint. For Kirk, the anger dissipated just as quickly as it formed. And given McCoy's instability, Jim's levelheadedness was a blessing in disguise.

After all the swearing and yelling, the name-calling and the finger pointing, Pike was continually surprised that Kirk still cared about his partner enough to genuinely ask for a SITREP every day. It was testament to the young man's character, and if McCoy weren't already armpits-deep in a pile of his own shit, Pike would have probably pistol-whipped his former partner for being such an insensitive prick.

Shifting in his chair, the lieutenant debated how much to tell his patrolman. After a moment's hesitation, he settled on, "Same as yesterday. And the day before. And last week. And the week before that. He's still angry."

"At me?" Jim asked, notes of disappointment coloring his words.

Pike shook his head. "No, not at you, just at the world in general. But he didn't tell me to go fuck myself with a rusty railroad spike when I stopped by today, though I think that had more to do with my wife's earlier visit than anything else."

Jim actually looked hopeful. "Well, I guess it's a start."

"Yeah. I hope it can only get better from here," Pike said, letting out a long, frustrated sigh.

"Here, here," Kirk replied, raising the coffee mug in the air and saluting his lieutenant.

Chris cleared his throat to rid the heavy weight of dread from his chest. He tipped his head right and then left, cracking his neck gloriously. Chris motioned towards the pile of technology heaped on his desk and asked with a huff, "Do you really know what you're doing, or are you just making it up as you go along like you do for every other aspect of your life?"

Shaking off his earlier melancholy like an unneeded blanket, Kirk shot a cocky glance at the older man. "I got skills, Lieu. Admit it. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked me to fix Ethan's ancient computer."

"No, I asked you because we can't afford to buy him a new one right now, and you were the first guy I thought of who could help."

"Aww, I'm touched," Jim said, dramatically batting his eyelashes while he placed one hand over his heart. "That's sweet."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Don't be so proud. You were just the lesser of two evils. Since I refuse to use the Geek Squad ever again after they broke my phone, it was you or that Russian kid. You won only because I can actually understand what you're saying, not that I want to most days. Besides, I can pay you in beer."

Kirk waved a hand. "You don't have to pay me at all. Just have Ethan do something for someone else when they need it." The scowl that broke out across the lieutenant's face caused Kirk's grin to fade. "Was it something I said?"

Pike jammed the heels of his hands in his eyes. He let out a loud groan before he stood up and stretched, keys and gear rattling around on his duty rig. Plopping back down in his chair, he slouched and massaged his head at his temples. "No, Jim. For once, you're not the reason for my headache."

"Wow. That's gotta be a first."

"It is," Pike confirmed flatly. Sighing, he said, "It's my kid this time. He seems to have hit that age where everything is bullshit, everyone is out to screw him, and his parents are the lamest thing he's ever seen because we're imposing discipline."

Kirk laughed quietly and then sobered when he realized how miserable his boss looked. "I hate to tell you, but you've been lucky he's held off this long. I think it's been a long time coming. You should have seen me at his age. Now _that_ was scary! I'm not sure how my mother survived!"

"One of these days, I'll have to call her and ask her. Maybe she can give me some tips on how to deal with my own delinquent child." Pike cracked his knuckles loudly and shook his head, though the faintest hints of a smile graced his lips for a split second as he thought about what a little hellion Kirk was in his early and mid teens. "I'm sorry, Jim. That wasn't right. I didn't mean to unload on you, and I'm sure you don't want to hear all about my boring family life. It's just that—stress, you know?"

"I think we've all felt a little bit of that in the past couple of months, Chris," Jim said earnestly.

The use of his given name caught Pike by surprise; he could count on one hand the number of times Kirk had called him anything other than 'Lieu' or 'Pike', and each instance had happened during the past six months. Chris swallowed and agreed. "Yeah. Yeah, we have."

"…Which brings us back to Ethan," Jim gently coaxed.

"Right. My pain in the ass son. He should be considering himself lucky that I even entertained the idea to upgrade his laptop. I sure as hell didn't want to fix it because he doesn't deserve it, seeing as how he's failing four of six classes and barely passing the other two."

"That's why you stormed out of here the other day, huh? I heard Serdeski yapping about it with Gaila when I brought that crazy cat lady in to booking," Jim replied while he unscrewed the three tiny screws holding in the keyboard tray. He removed each one carefully and placed them in his empty coffee mug for safekeeping.

"Serdeski still running his mouth again?" Pike grumbled lowly, glaring out to where the desk sergeant would have been sitting if it weren't after hours. "I'll have to remember to have a little chat with him about appropriate things to do with scuttlebutt. That man is the worst gossip I've ever seen."

"Go easy on the guy, Lieu. Gaila just about tore him apart for spreading your business through the station like that," Kirk answered with a laugh. "It was masterful. Seriously, remind me to never piss that lady off. Greg looked like he was ready to cry by the time she got done with him."

"Gaila? _Gaila_, as in our department's PIO, gave him the business? The one who's always smiling and is constantly peppy? We're talking about the same girl, right? The one who couldn't keep her mouth shut if her life depended on it?" Pike responded, one eyebrow raised in state of positive befuddlement.

Coyly, Jim answered, "Yeah, we are. Funny, right?"

"I wish you would have gotten it on tape. I would have loved to have used that as blackmail to get Serdeski to cooperate every once in a blue moon."

"I'm sure I could find you something if you really needed it. After all, we're talking about Serdeski here," Kirk said with a shrug.

"I'll wait until the situation is dire, but thanks for the offer, Kirk."

Jim nodded, letting the room fall into a comfortable silence as he went back to work. With the touch of a surgeon, he gently pried the keyboard from its tray, lifted the plastic carefully and inspected the guts of the machine underneath as he looked for pay dirt. He nodded satisfactorily as he saw what he needed. With his hands still moving, he asked, "So, now I have a question: if you're so pissed at Ethan, why am I fixing his computer? Kind of seems counterproductive to discipline. Not that I'd know anything about that."

Chris sighed again for the umpteenth time that evening. "He doesn't deserve it. His ass, for this, was saved because he does have a lot of work to finish and we've been limping this computer along now for the past three years. I was going to make him do it himself, but I figured he'd just do more harm than good. Like father, like son, apparently."

"He's a teenager. He can't be _that_ shit with a computer."

"Not as bad as me, no, but close. It's damned embarrassing is what it is," Pike grumbled.

"Well, I suppose it's better than buying him a new one," Kirk supplied. Jim crinkled his nose in disgust as he removed the old stick of memory and tossed it in the trash next to Chris' desk. Reaching for the new package, he popped it open while he talked. "I know he hasn't been himself lately, but it's cruel and unusual punishment to make your kid use a computer this ancient. Jesus, do you know how annoying it would be use try and do work on this? It had under a gig of RAM."

"Whatever the hell that means," Pike replied with a raised eyebrow.

"It means it's slow, Lieu. Really, really, painfully slow," Jim answered with a laugh. "I might have put a bullet through it, just to make me feel better."

"And with the way you're sitting there jacking your jaws and not working, you're moving as slow as that computer. Put the thing back together and let's get the hell out of here," Pike half-ordered with a loud yawn. "It's past this old man's bedtime."

Kirk scoffed and shook his head. "You know, this isn't as easy as it looks. You take me for granted."

"No, I take silence for granted," Pike replied with a smile, tossing the stress ball he kept on his desk for Kirk-related incidents at Jim himself. It bounced harmlessly off the side of Kirk's head, earning him a strangled yelp from the younger man sitting in his office. Propping his feet up on the desk, Chris conceded defeat against paperwork. He slapped the folder he was trying to finish shut and interlaced his fingers behind his head. "Now, less talking, more working. I wasn't kidding about wanting to go home. It's been a hell of a day."

"Roger that," Kirk answered, addressing both Pike's request to get his ass in gear and Chris' observation of another emotionally taxing day. Jim's hands moved at warp speed as he quickly installed the second stick, replaced the keyboard and shroud, put the battery back in and pressed the power button. "Moment of truth," he said, smiling.

Pike got up from his chair and walked around his desk. He took his customary place next to Kirk and silently waited. The little machine beeped once, whirled and produced a few mechanical noises as it sputtered to life. Jim logged in, checked the specs and handed the laptop proudly to his lieutenant. Brushing his hands off dramatically, he said, "Done and done!"

Chris reached over the mess of manila folders and rooted around for his glasses. Snagging them, he slipped them on and opened the Firefox icon on the desktop. He scowled when he received an error message. "Kirk, what the hell's wrong with thing? I thought you said it was working fine."

"It _is_ working just fine," Jim replied, rolling his eyes. "You just have to connect to the network-You know what, nevermind. Here, give me that thing before you break it and render all my awesomeness null and void." Kirk's fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in the station's wireless network password. He hit enter and let the connection finish before handing the computer back to his boss.

Chris reached out and accepted the bulky contraption. Over the tops of his glasses, Pike stared at Jim. "Let's get this straight, Kirk – you don't have 'awesomeness'. That title is reserved for me."

"All right, how about we say that I'm not technologically inept like you are. Seriously, Lieu, how do you even manage to check your email when you don't know that you have to be connected to the internet to do it?"

"Who says I check my emails?"

Jim's head shot up. "Huh. So is that why my last four days of overtime never got approved?"

"Probably," Pike answered honestly.

"Good to know. I'll hand you the paper copy request next time," Kirk decided. His gaze wandered to the mess on his superior's desk and, with a cringe, he amended, "…Or maybe I'll just get you a calendar so I can write it on there."

"That would work," Pike said distractedly as he opened the dropdown list of Ethan's favorite websites. He clicked the first one he knew wouldn't draw the ICPD's Internet Police's attention and logged on. His Facebook profile popped up, complete with a picture of a smiling, in-uniform lieutenant, down on one knee and holding the unsteady hands of a toddler as she reached out to grab the shiny gold badge attached to his shirt. Navigating over to his friends list, Pike looked for his son's familiar picture. He scrolled through the list – Lynn, his mother, his brother and his nieces and nephew's names all populated, but the one glaring omission was his son's. "What the hell?" he snorted. "Why is Ethan's Facebook page not here?"

Kirk's posture deflated. "Oh. I, ah, I think he de-friended you, Lynn and Bones. I saw that this morning when I was on. Why, what are you trying to do?"

Pike's expression, a mash up of shocked and slightly uneasy, spoke volumes. Pointing to the screen, he said, "Well, I _was_ going to tell him that his laptop was working again, seeing as how this is the best way to communicate with the younger generation these days. But if he's going to do something childish like that because he's throwing a temper tantrum, maybe I should just have you take that…RAM thing back out."

"It'd be more work than it's worth, honestly."

"Still," Pike said, crossing his arms over his chest, clearly miffed. "That's not the point. It's about principle."

"You know what? Why don't I just leave a post on his Facebook page? I don't think he's dropped me, at least not yet," Kirk supplied helpfully, pulling his phone from his pocket. He fired up the correct app and navigated to Ethan's wall. He was about to click on the 'Write Post' option, but the beginnings of a message, specifically a few key phrases in the post, caught his attention instead. Jim scrolled with his finger and began reading, his scowl deepening the farther down he got in Ethan's marathon writing session.

"What is it?" Pike asked, acutely aware of the expression on Kirk's normally casual face.

Wordlessly, Jim walked around his boss' desk and shooed Pike aside. He logged Chris out of Facebook and replaced the credentials with his own email and password. "You need to see something," Kirk said cryptically as he clicked furiously away at the site. Finally reaching his destination, he opened up the page-long rant on the younger Pike's wall, spun the computer around to face his boss, and waited for the proverbial shit to hit the fan.

Chris' leg bounced up and down as he read, the rhythmic tapping of the heel of his shoe against the floor growing louder and quickening with each passing line of text. He finished after what seemed like a lifetime, sitting back in his chair while he exhaled one loud, long groan of dissatisfaction. Pike ran a hand through his hair and then over his face as his eyes drifted towards the ceiling. He sucked in a couple of deep, calming breaths to help slow the blood that was racing with rage through his veins before he finally spoke. "Jim? I think I'm going to authorize some of that overtime right now. Stop by Spock's office and grab that video camera of his. You know, the high-def one? When you've got it, meet me on the range with your service weapon. I need your help to teach my son a little lesson in humility."

Kirk inwardly cringed. Pike needed _his_ help teaching Ethan a lesson in humility? Kirk, the proverbial poster child from misbehavior, wasn't usually called upon unless Pike was using him as an example of what _not_ to do. The role reversal was just strange, and it made Jim's skin crawl. He suppressed a shudder and looked at his boss questioningly. "Lieu?"

Pike pursed his lips and held up a hand, his features blank and stony. An outside observer wouldn't have known anything was amiss by Chris' facial expression or the tone of his voice, but anyone who knew the lieutenant well would be able to see the fire shooting through his icy eyes with one short glance. The fury dancing about them was enough to make even the ballsiest of cops back off, and Pike knew Jim was no exception. "Just do it. That's an order. You'll see why in a little bit."

Jim nodded wordlessly. Oh, this was not going to end well. Kirk sent a silent prayer heavenward that Ethan survived whatever Chris was planning as he set off towards Spock's perfectly ordered office. Quite suddenly, Kirk realized he was glad to have never found himself on the receiving end of Lieutenant Chris Pike's Really Creative Discipline.

Clearly, it was about to be on like Donkey Kong.

* * *

**Next Up**: For once, Jim Kirk is not the one on Chris Pike's shit list_._ In fact, Kirk is sure he never wants to see his boss that angry _ever__ again._


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes**: I am so unbelievably sorry about the length of time in between postings. I really should know better that starting to post a multiple chaptered story at the end of March is just a stupid idea. I thought with hockey done, I'd have more time to post, but apparently the various revenue agencies don't see it that way. (I work in accounting, and in the US, April 15th is the filing deadline. Subsequently, I run around like a headless chicken for the first two weeks of April.) Anyway, here's chapter four, otherwise known as the, "Chris Pike is epically pissed off," chapter. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Trek or that really awesome 'Facebook parenting for the troubled teen' video. No money is made. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Was it something he said?

Ethan Pike was at a complete loss. He'd wracked his brain through Macro Economics (he really should have been paying attention during that one, but for God's sake, who can listen to talk about GDP and national credit ratings at 7:30 in the damned morning?), fiddled with a few hypotheses during biology while he half listened to his teacher talk about genetics, and tuned out most of his algebra lesson in favor of doodling pictures in his notebook. By the time he was walking to lunch, Ethan was still no closer to solving the mystery of the random side eye he was receiving from a good portion of the student body.

The long and the short of it was that this simply wouldn't do.

Being a cop's son had distinctly awesome perks (ridealongs), but it also had glaring disadvantages (angry transference from peers). Though his father wasn't responsible for the collective misery many perceived the police inflicted on society as a whole, Chris was the arresting officer in more than a few cases that affected Ethan's classmates. But while the children of Pike's arrestees weren't usually shy about voicing their displeasure, the sheer volume of reactions he was garnering told Ethan that for once, his dad's job wasn't at fault for his latest teenage drama.

Ethan shuffled his way through the lunch line, snagging a hamburger, French fries and something the school was trying to pass off as chocolate pudding from the ready-made food bar. He exited the kitchen area and scanned the crowd for a few familiar faces, or at least a place to sit. When he saw Pavel wave an enthusiastic hand, Ethan sighed with relief, adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and headed towards his friend.

"Word," the younger Pike mumbled gruffly as he plopped down on the unoccupied sliver of the lunch table's bench seat.

"_Dobre ootrom, moy droog_," Chekov answered through a healthy mouthful of salad.

Snorting loudly, Ethan dunked his fries liberally through the glob of ketchup on his tray. He pointed the end at Pavel and said, "Dude, we're eating lunch. It's not morning anymore. And besides, what about this day is good?"

"It is still before noon. That makes it morning," the Russian replied cheerfully. When he didn't get at least a smirk back in return, Chekov's face fell. "What is wrong, my friend? Is there more trouble with your motherland?"

"The motherland? No, she's fine. It's the fatherland that's not being too cool right now." Ethan waved a hand through the air to stop Pavel's mouth from running away with his brain. "It's nothing worse than what we talked about the other night. Same shit, different day."

"I take it your grades are still cause for concern?"

"Yes and no, but it's nothing I can't handle," Ethan said, leaning forward. He reached down for his backpack under the table and pulled his water bottle from the mesh side pocket. Taking a long sip, he tilted his head left and right and added, "But everyone's been giving me really strange looks today, and it's creeping me out. Dad hasn't arrested people en masse for a really long time, so I know it's not anything he did for once. I dunno. Can't figure it out."

Pavel's jaws crunched his salad once, then twice before they came to a direct halt. He swallowed roughly, washing his food down with a hearty swig of tomato juice. Carefully, he said, "Well, I do not think that statement is entirely accurate. You father is a wery persuasive man when he is getting a point across. And inwentive, too. I may have to speak to him about his methods. They are effective."

Ethan getting more and more confused and then is all, "Chekov, what the hell are you talking about?"

Pavel raised an eyebrow. "You have not seen the video? It is all over Facebook."

"No, my dad's had my computer for a couple of days now. He says he's fixing it, and he took away my cell phone because of my grades." Ethan shoved his hamburger aside and folded his hands in front of his chest. Staring as hard as he could at his friend, growled, "Now, what video are you talking about?"

Chekov's face fell. "Oh. I must assume that you have not seen the most recent video your father posted on his wall?"

"If I knew about it, would I be asking you right now?"

"_Nyet_. Good point," Chekov agreed. He shifted in his seat and pulled his phone from his pocket. Looking furtively around, his eyes cased the lunchroom for any overzealous hall monitors with sticky, cell-phone confiscating fingers. When he deduced the coast was clear, Pavel opened up his Facebook app and directed the browser to the correct video. He slid the device over to his friend, but before he relinquished control, he asked, "Are you sure you want to see this? Your father is wery displeased in this clip."

Ethan pursed his lips and scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he waved a hand through the air. "I've lived with the man for fifteen years now. I think I can handle it."

"Your choice, my friend, your choice." The Russian grabbed his tray and stood. "I must go. I am assisting faculty for this year's senior physics project, and we are having a safety meeting this afternoon. I have much to prepare."

"Yeah, right. You just need to go order your notes for your presentation. Don't front, dude. It ain't cool," Ethan joked with a smirk as he waited for the video to load. Pointing down to the phone, he asked, "Should I just give this back to you when I see you again?"

"That would be agreeable. I should see you before the day is over. We are on midterm break, so I do not have my college classes today." Patting his friend on the shoulder, Chekov added, "Be good, Ethan," before he walked away.

Ethan waved a hand over his shoulder as the Facebook video finally completed loading. A grey screen gave way to the visage of his father, in full uniform, sitting on a small stool against a cement wall. Perhaps the motorpool or Scotty's office, Ethan had very little time to place the room before his father started speaking. '_'Evening, everybody_," Pike began on the phone's tiny screen, his deep voice somehow cutting through the din of the school lunchroom. "_I'm Chris Pike, and for those of you who don't know me, I'm Ethan Pike's dad. I'm sitting here this fine Saturday night making this video because I think my son needs a little lesson in proper manners and respect. And because he's not man enough to own up to his own actions, well, I think it's time for a little bit of tough love_."

Ethan sighed. Great. Here goes his dad with another one of his famous, 'Tough love is a good thing,' speeches. Christ almighty, if his day wasn't horseshit enough. _"Now, I want to take a little bit of time here to talk to my offspring. Ethan, you and I had words about your grades and the status of your classes when I came home from work the other day. I hoped that our little talk would have spurred some interest in your schoolwork, but the only thing it apparently accomplished was to make you act like more a whining brat. Son, instead of just getting your work done like we have to do in the real world, you decide to write a ranting letter and post it to Facebook? Are you kidding me?"_

Ethan raised a contemplative eyebrow. What letter was his father talking about? He never posted anything of the kind. Sure, there was that two page bitch-fest he'd written after Chris tore strips off him the day his midterm grades were released, but-

Oh, shit.

Did he post that? Ethan could have sworn that he hit the 'cancel' option on his status update, because that letter really was nasty. Borne of anger and frustration, it wasn't ever written with an audience in mind. It was just a way for him to vent his rage in a more private manner before it actually exploded in a more public fashion. But hearing his dad's words and reading the expression on his face, Ethan began to believe that he might just experienced the mother of all PEBCAK errors. He gulped and rubbed a hand over his face, picking up the video in time to see his father's expression darken.

Chris didn't disappoint. Ethan was well acquainted with his father's 'street voice', the one the elder Pike used to command attention in a crowd of drunks, in a room full of rowdy police officers, or on a bus crammed with middle school aged kids as he chaperoned the annual science trip to the local amusement park. Booming, deep and intimidating, Ethan barely resisted the urge to shrink backwards in his seat when his dad started reading.

"_I'm going to read what you wrote now for everyone to hear, especially since you never intended for any of the people you addressed in it to see it. Kid, you forget what I do for a living. We have people here whose jobs it is – professionally – to look into shenanigans like yours. Remember that if you live long enough after I'm done making this video for there to __**be**__ a next time," _he said, Pike's head bobbing back and forth as he talked_._

The lieutenant raised his hands and unfurled a slightly crinkled piece of paper he retrieved from his lap. He pulled the reader glasses out of the pocket of his shirt and slipped them on. "_This letter is called, 'Hypocrisy 101, Otherwise Known as Why My Parents Suck'." _Pike pulled the paper down from his face and looked straight into the camera._ "Do we now? Wait until I'm done here because you're going to want to revisit that statement." _

The thinly veiled threat wasn't lost on the teen as Chris lowered his eyes and started at the top of the letter. _""I used to think it would be really cool if my parents forgot I existed. No one would bother me, no one would bitch and at me – life would be sweet. Well lately, my idiot parents have gotten half of it right. They forgot about me in most of the positive senses, but they still manage to stick their noses into my life long enough to make it a living hell. It's fucking awesome. Yep. It is. I love it'."_

Ethan envisioned every angry word he'd typed on the page, he felt the despondency and hurt in his own chest, and he heard the cutting sarcasm as it oozed through his written tone. His father was also doing a pretty good job of sounding like a teenager; thus far, the elder Pike managed to perfectly portray Ethan's own syntax and speech patterns independent of the letter's writings itself. It was, in a word, disturbing.

"'_I'll bet you're wondering why my life is so awesome. See, my dad has decided that one of his drama queen cops is more important than his own son. Come to my hockey game? 'I'll see if I can make it,' is usually the response I get, which lately, has meant no because he's too busy working. I scored my first hat trick this year as a varsity player, but both my parents missed that. He won't give me a hand with my homework, but he'll drop in to get in my face about my crappy midterm report. And when I say 'drop in', I really mean it, since he's been too busy covering for The Georgia Wonder lately to be at home for more than a few hours at a time._"

Pike paused before he began the next paragraph. _"'How many times did I hear this winter, "Just do me a favor, son" from my dad's mouth? A whole hell of a lot. It got old, really quickly. Like, having to snowblow the driveway after practice and after homework on mom's orders because dad was in the middle of an eight-on stretch, and God forbid if he came home to have to do more work. Who's fucking fault is it that he's taking a shift anyway? Sure as hell isn't mine. But do I get recognition for going above and beyond around the house? Not at all. No, a little 'thank you' would be too much to ask'."_

"_This is my favorite part_," Chris admitted factitiously to the camera. _"'What really chaps my ass is that I'm not worthy enough of even a response in return. Even when I figured out what was going on, you guys still lied right to my face. What? You can't trust me with the fact that one your guys fucked up his life? Who gives a shit! It's his fault he can't put the bottle down long enough to actually do his job. Why do I have to be the one to pay for it? Dad, if I can even call you that right now, you are unbelievable. You and mom will drop everything, any time of the goddamned day, for someone who was a complete stranger to us ten years ago. Why? What has he done for us, other than be a pain in the ass? Tell me that. Seriously'."_

Pike stopped, wiped a hand over his face and blew out a big breath._ "Ethan," _he began, addressing his son directly,_ "I don't even know what to say in response to this next part, other than I hope you regret every single word you wrote. I still can't believe it came from you, so I'm just going to read it'."_

The teen could hear the disappointment in his father's voice. Ethan could have dealt with Chris simply being pissed at him. That seemed to be the default Pike male emotion when things went south. But, the flicker of anguish he saw in his dad's eyes was hard for him to handle, and he found himself swallowing back a fresh wave of nausea as he recalled what was coming next.

Pike's tone was flat, impassive and nearly monotone, but the rage that boiled just beneath the surface was detectible by the sharp, stinging accents to the words themselves._ "'There are days that I wonder why that supplier didn't finish him off all those years ago when he had the chance. Maybe it was because karma hates me, and this is its way of telling me I suck. Seriously, is it so much to ask that my parents give me attention other than bitching at me? If they want to bitch at someone, they should be doing it to our longtime family 'friend'. Because right now, I'm writing him in as Asshole of the Year, and I think he'd deserve it. He'd be right up there with my parents'."_

Pike crumpled up the letter into a tight ball. He tossed it back and forth as he gnashed his teeth together, waiting for some of the roiling emotions to subside before he dared speak again. He took a deep breath and dropped the paper to the floor. Chris pointed straight at the camera and said, "_Now, I'd like to address a few of these. Ethan, the only bit of common sense you had through this entire thing was to not name this person specifically. Not only could you have ruined his career, the man you have just nominated for 'Asshole of the Year' is someone you have known all of your life, and who views you as a son of his own. I want you to get that through your head before we go any further_."

Chris adjusted his duty rig and shifted on the stool, shaking out his left leg to return some circulation to it. He folded his hands and laid them in his lap as his eyes darted around the room. Finally bringing his attention back to het camera, he said,_ "You need to understand the world does not revolve around you, mister. It doesn't revolve around the – what did you call him – the Georgia Wonder, either. This is how friendship works, son. It's about being unselfish and helping people when they need it. You remember the saying your mom always uses? Well, let me help you: 'It takes a village to raise a kid,' and in some cases, it takes a village to save a friend. That's what we were trying to do, just in case you were too caught up in your own teenage bullshit to figure it out."_

The lieutenant's voice dipped down to a near hiss. It sounded like a warning shot put across a bow, and Ethan got the message loudly and clearly._ "We never lied to you," _Chris began._ "I told you the other day – you don't need to know every sordid detail about what your mom and I are dealing with right now because they're not your business. They will never be your business, so you can stop with the entitlement right now. And to help you figure that out, we're going to do a little lesson in physics." _

Lesson in physics? What? Ethan wasn't sure he liked where this was heading. Chris Pike was one of the most creative disciplinarians on the face of the planet, and the teen really, really hated being on the receiving end. It almost always sucked.

"_The other day, you begged and pleaded with me to fix your laptop so you could do your homework on it. I didn't want to because you were acting like a spoiled child, but I thought if I could get it done, you'd get to work. So I asked Jim, who came and gave up his free time to help you. And this is how you repay us. I don't like it, son. It's selfish and incredibly arrogant, and it's going to stop right now."_

Ethan watched as his dad turned ninety degrees on the stool. The camera shifted with him, bringing into frame a large shelf affixed to the wall. From waist level up, large clear panes of thick glass rose from the half-wall. Squinting to read the warning sticker stuck to the glass, Ethan's eyes went wide when he realized where his father was sitting.

"_Do you recognize this room? You should – you've been here before. It's the ICPD shooting range, in the basement of our building_," Chris said as he pulled the reader glasses from his face, tossing them carelessly on the shelf. "_I invited a friend of yours, who I hope you don't hate, mind you, to help me with this. Say hi, Jim_," Pike instructed as the camera panned at lightning speed from the lieutenant to the man operating it.

The lens took a second or two to focus, but eventually an apologetic Jim Kirk wafted into view. He waved once, and although he looked comparatively less steamed than Ethan's father, the teen could read the clear disappointment in the blonde man's eyes. He shrugged and said simply, "_Sorry buddy. You kind of deserve this,_" before he set the camera down on the loading shelf and walked into frame.

'Deserve what?' Ethan thought, scratching his head in confusion. But as he watched his father and Kirk don the requisite hearing and eye protection, a sinking feeling started to form in the pit of his stomach. Jim plucked the camera from the shelf, steadied it, and pointed it down range. Ethan nearly gasped when he saw his laptop, his precious, everything-is-on-it-and-nothing-was-backed-up laptop, propped up on some metal anti-frag stands the department used for 'Tactical Tuesdays'.

They weren't going to-Dammit, they were. Ethan's head fell to his chest when Kirk moved behind Pike. The lieutenant walked up to the range booth, and said over his right shoulder, "_Ethan, it's a shame your mother never really expressed any interest in learning to shoot, because she might have enjoyed this moment_."

That was it. That was all the warning Ethan received before his father reached towards the holster situated on the left side of his body, unclipped the active retention, lifted his Heckler and Koch USP and pointed the business end of the .40 Smith and Wesson semi-automatic handgun at the unsuspecting computer. Years of training and hundreds of thousands of fired target rounds all melted into one smooth trigger squeeze as Pike sent the first round down range. The muzzle of his gun flashed a millisecond before the Hornady Critical Defense ammunition hit the inanimate computer and fragmented, blowing several pieces of plastic out the back.

Pike continued, squeezing the trigger again and again as he fired every single bullet of the magazine's thirteen round capacity at his son's computer. Shell casings spit out the side of Chris' firearm, clattering against the green plastic that divided each shooting lane. They bounced unnoticed off Pike's shoulders and dropped harmlessly to the ground, the sensitive audio on the camera picking up the 'tink, tink, tink' as they fell.

The slide of the lieutenant's gun locked back, signifying the lack of more deadly projectiles. Ethan let out a breath he was holding on his computer's behalf, resigning it to the graveyard of demolished technology. But he father wasn't done; Chris' left thumb swiped easily at the magazine release mounted at the back of the trigger guard of the .40. The black spring-loaded holder dropped from the handle of the pistol and fell straight to the floor. It landed among the spent brass casings, forgotten as Pike reached around his duty rig, grabbed another mag and slammed it home, all in one fluid motion. His thumb hit the slide release, chambering the first round and setting the USP to single action. He pulled the trigger thirteen more times for thirteen more hits, completely ensuring total destruction.

Even though he wasn't standing on the range next to his father, Ethan could almost hear the ringing ricochet in his ears and feel the concussive force of small arms fire as it bounced off the cement walls and slightly low ceiling. He could smell the sulfur in the air, he could feel the slide oil on his hands, and he could taste the grittiness of gunpowder blowback in his mouth. On camera, Chris turned his entire body to face the camera, removed his hearing and eye protection and said, "_Now, do we have any more questions? No? Good. Have a good night, son, and hopefully you understand why I did this when I finally un-ground you long enough to watch it_."

Ethan groaned and laid his head on the table. He was _so_ dead when he got home.

_Fuck._

* * *

**Next Up**: Ethan and McCoy come face to face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes**: I'm so, so sorry it's taken me a month to get this chapter up. Real life has been incredibly stressful for me of late – massive problems at work have compounded one on top of another and have left me at my wits' end with my job. Hopefully y'all will understand that my mind has been admittedly elsewhere (this is the first night in a month I've actually felt the urge to turn on my computer). Just know that I'm not trying to ignore anything or forget about posting.

Anyway, here's the last chapter of Thirteen. I hope you enjoy it and as always, any comments are greatly appreciated. (Especially right now!)

**Disclaimer**: If I owned Star Trek, I suspect I'd have an entirely different set of problems to deal with right now other than the ones I've got. Six of one; half-dozen of the other as it were. But in case it wasn't clear, Star Trek isn't mine, I make no money from my writing and do this only because it helps me hold on to the tiny shred of sanity I've got left.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Chris often said that stupidity took many forms, and that it was most frequently found in the most unexpected of places. Ethan scoffed. He'd bet his next two paychecks that his old man never expected so much idiocy to emanate from his own flesh and blood.

After the Great Computer Shooting, life at Casa de Pike was tense at best. Chris and Ethan weren't at outright war with one another, but they weren't exactly on speaking terms, either. Both managed to be cordial, which included actually asking for the salt shaker or breadsticks at dinner instead of simply reaching across the table to grab them. If he needed help with homework, Chris was right there to offer it, but the study sessions were completely devoid of his father's famous smiles or well-timed jokes. Strictly business, Ethan slowly chipped away at the small mountain of backlogged work each and every night until he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. It was a blessed feeling to know that he might actually pass his classes.

In his fifteen years on the planet, Ethan couldn't recall one instance in which his father stayed mad at him for more than a couple of days, up to and including the infamous Scraper Incident. They were now approaching a fortnight, and the near-grudge Chris was holding was beginning to border on ridiculous. But each time Ethan would growl and groan about the loss of his freedom (and a good portion of his creature comfort privileges), he remembered what precipitated his father's anger and disappointment. And each time he thought about that letter, a new wave of shame and embarrassment washed over him. When he felt the burning in his cheeks or heard the rush of blood roar through his ears, he knew he deserved every bit of personal humiliation the memories garnered.

Honestly, if it weren't for one well-timed phone call from the object of said Facebook letter, Ethan thought he might be on his father's shit list until he was 40. The younger Pike knew that Chris showed McCoy a copy of what he'd written, and while it was mortifying at first, he shouldn't have expected anything different. His father never told him how Len reacted, which was both troubling and comforting at the same time. In his case, ignorance was bliss, at least for a while.

Chris gave him very little in the way of instruction as to why McCoy summoned him after two weeks of radio silence. He only told his offspring that he was to be at Len's place, ready to work at 1000 sharp on Saturday morning, and to expect to be there until McCoy told him to go home. Normally a man of precision and planning, the lack of direction was unsettling. But, he had to do it, for both selfish (getting off his father's shit list) and unselfish (executing the much-owed apology to Len) reasons. Ethan parked his bike near the stairs of the apartment building the sergeant inhabited and made his way up to the correct unit.

But what was he _really_ supposed to say when he met McCoy face to face? "_Uh hi, sorry I have a big mouth. It's an inherited family trait. Please forgive me?_" Yeah, like that would fly with McCoy. As if he hadn't insulted the man enough in the past two weeks, opening with half-assed pacification like that would only serve to make matters worse. He pondered a little longer as his feet took him automatically towards the door at the end of the hallway. No closer to figuring out what he was supposed to say, Ethan sighed, raised his hand and knocked on the flimsy wood.

The door that divided McCoy's apartment from the hallway did little else than provide a physical curtain to ward off prying eyes. Leaning one ear towards the door as he waited, Ethan heard Len grunt as he presumably heaved himself from his favorite recliner. The sound of glasses clinking against one another resonated through the room, as did the light plip-plops of McCoy's footfalls. The deadbolt slid back, and with a rush of negative pressure, a bright glow of natural sunlight filled the dark hallway.

Teetering from foot to foot, Ethan was still at a loss for words. He looked up at McCoy, then down at his feet then back up towards the man on the other side of the door. "Hi," he eventually said lamely.

McCoy's face was impassive but stony; though most of all, it was positively impossible to read. He didn't move an inch; the rising and falling of his chest along with the occasional blink of his eyes were the only motions that gave him away as human as he stared down the poor teen shuffling at his door.

Stammering, Ethan swallowed harshly and spit out in one rush, "Mr. McCoy, I didn't mean for any of this go so far or for it to be-"

Despite the obvious apprehension coloring his brownish-green eyes, McCoy still managed a look of exasperation as he heard Ethan's fleeting attempt at good manners. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Clearing his throat, Len admonished, "Ethan, you know better than that. 'Mr. McCoy' was my father. I'm Len. Or Bones. Or Sergeant. Or whatever the fuck you want, just not 'Mr.', okay?"

"Yes, sir," the teen agreed, blowing out a breath of relief.

McCoy shot Ethan another disapproving look before he set his jaw and said, "All right. Now that we've got that out of the way, why don't you come inside? You and I need to talk."

Gulping, Ethan nodded wordlessly and stepped through the threshold of the apartment. Len made a motion towards the kitchen table as he disappeared into the kitchen proper. The teen followed McCoy dutifully across the small living room and into the equally tiny dining area. It only took Ethan about a half dozen steps to cover the distance from the front door to the kitchen table, but it felt like an eternity, like he was being marched to his death. It also gave him a couple of seconds to observe both his surroundings and his companion, and he used the time wisely.

McCoy's place was really, really clean – spotless, even. Ethan had only been over a handful of times, but he didn't remember Len being such a neat freak. Yes, stuff was (sort of) put away and the dishes were (mostly) cleared from the sink, but there were always a few stray magazines or papers lying around, a jacket tossed haphazardly over a chair, or a random Playstation controller teetering on the back of the toilet that gave the place a very lived-in feel. Now, every single surface was perfectly wiped, stacked or otherwise organized, and when he took a deep breath, Ethan could smell the disinfectant that practically permeated the apartment.

While the state of the apartment was a vast improvement, McCoy himself certainly was not. Ethan knew he would have picked up on the physical differences right away, but he wondered if he would have noticed the more subtle personality shift had he seen Len more than a couple times over the past six months.

Whatever the case might have been, he sure as hell was party to both right now. McCoy still projected the requisite police sergeant bearing, but there was something off about the way he held himself aside from the obvious weight loss and more pronounced stress lines. Ethan tried to put a word to it, but the only adjective his mind willingly conjured was '_defeated_'. McCoy's body language looked drained, matching Len's slightly pinched face and blank eyes Ethan saw when the older man opened the door a few minutes earlier.

Shaking off the worry that started to form in the pit of his stomach, Ethan grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and pulled it backwards. He sat down and waited for the onslaught of four syllable words interspersed by four letter ones he thought were headed his way. Instead, he was surprised when McCoy returned carrying two steaming hot beverage mugs.

Len plunked one down in front of Pike before he grabbed his own chair to sit down. Long fingers wrapped all the way around the oversized coffee mug as McCoy took a long, satisfied sip of the strong brew. He set it down and reached into his back pocket, fishing out his battered cell phone in the process. Dialing a number, he hit the 'send' button and handed it Ethan. "Your dad said you were coming. You're supposed to call him from this as soon as you got here so he knows you made it."

Bristling, Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. "He doesn't need to baby me."

"Doesn't he now?" McCoy asked with an arched eyebrow.

Kicking himself and his big mouth, Ethan flinched. Relenting, he admitted with a grimace, "I deserved that."

"Yes, you did," McCoy replied flatly as Chris answered the call.

"Dad?" Ethan said, "I'm at Len's place. Obviously, since I'm talking to you on his phone. I'm betting you have instructions for me."

'_Ethan, put me on speaker_.'

With a sigh, Ethan pulled the phone away from his ear and found the speaker option. Pressing it, he said, "Okay, Dad. Go."

Chris' smooth, authoritative voice boomed through the tinny, microscopic speakers. Even over a cell phone, the man still managed to be intimidating. Without preamble, Pike practically ordered, '_I want to be perfectly clear: McCoy owns your ass for the afternoon, or more if he feels like it. If he tells you clean his entire apartment from top to bottom, the next thing that comes out of your mouth had better be a request for a toothbrush. And if he tells you to do it all again, you do it again. Twice. You are to adhere to Corps level discipline while in his presence. If I hear any inclination that you've behaved otherwise, you and I will have another come to Jesus. If you thought that last one was bad—Don't test me, son_.'

Ethan bit down hard on his lip to keep any smart assed retorts at bay. Swallowing his pride, he agreed, "Okay, Dad. Got it. Anything else?"

'_No. That'll do it this time. Len, if he steps out of line, you have my permission to fire away. Be creative if you need to. Talk to you boys soon_,' he said and cut the connection.

"Wow," McCoy said, cringing as he rubbed his forehead "I've never heard that tone before. Hell, I don't even think _Jim_ has ever heard that tone."

"Yeah, he's been a little pissed at me lately," Ethan replied as he took a whiff of what was in the cup McCoy handed him. Pleasantly surprised, the teen's eyes lit up when his brain registered the contents. Hot chocolate and coffee – in his opinion, they were the best combination on the face of the planet. (Well, hot chocolate with a little splash of coffee – he wasn't an adult just yet.) He took a sip and savored the sweet flavor of the hot chocolate and the pop of the nuclear strength coffee he knew the sergeant preferred. Ethan sat quietly and watched McCoy as he digested his last sentence.

Unsurprisingly, McCoy snorted. "A little? After that, I think coming to talk to me would be a treat."

"Yeah, probably," the teen agreed. He let the silence stretch with the hope McCoy would fill it with something other than a heavy stare. When the sergeant didn't make a move, Ethan drummed his fingers against the solid wood tabletop and began, "So."

"So," McCoy answered flatly, staring at Ethan over the rim of the coffee cup he held in both hands.

Taking a breath, Ethan dived straight into the choppy headwaters. "Len, I don't know what to say, other than I'm here to make penance. And to say I'm sorry, because I really am. I never meant what I said-"

"Yes you did," McCoy said, cutting him off completely with a sharply punctuated sentence and an even sharper expression.

"What?"

Len shifted in his seat. Lifting his eyes from the coffee mug to the teen, he clarified, "Of course you meant it. You wouldn't have written the damned thing in the first place if you hadn't."

Ethan tried to formulate a proper sentence, but it was like his brain was misfiring on every single application of speech. Instead of what he wanted to say, the only sounds that cleared the threshold that was his mouth were unintelligent sputters that could barely be classified as English.

McCoy pursed his lips and held up his right hand, palm out. "Ethan, stop before you hurt yourself."

The younger Pike drew in a deep breath and practically bit his tongue to keep his mouth from moving further. "Okay."

"Just let me explain. That letter of yours wasn't easy for me to read," McCoy said, holding Ethan's eyes.

The teen visibly flinched. Swallowing hard, he admitted, "I know, and I'm sorry. Like, sorrier than anything you can ever imagine. It honestly makes me sick when I think about what I did and what I said," Ethan concluded earnestly. He was trying to figure out what he should say next when McCoy's voice absolutely stunned him silent.

"But you were right. Everything you said was one hundred percent true," Len amended quietly.

Ethan's head snapped up from where it was resting on his chest. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in towards the man seated opposite him at the table. "What?" he practically snapped. "It's been a really long couple of weeks – don't think I have to tell you that, so don't play with me. Please. What do you mean?"

McCoy turned his coffee cup around in a small circle on the table, wiping away some of the brown liquid that dribbled free of the mug with his hand. His entire body tensed, as if he was a fox fleeing a hunt. He took a deep breath and forced his eyes up to find the young man's face. Stripping away all the snark and false bravado normally present in his voice, he finally said tiredly, "I'm not gonna sit here and bullshit you. You've been through enough lately, and most of it's been on my account. I think I owe you an explanation why…and an apology."

Ethan nearly dropped the half full mug of hot liquid all over his lap. His eyebrows knit together, creasing so deeply in between his eyes that the ends of his brows virtually touched. "Wait, what? Back up. You're apologizing to me? Why for? You're not the one who posted something hurtful and angry for the whole world to read."

Lifting his mug, McCoy took a long swig of coffee, draining the contents in one gulp. He stood silently, walked to the kitchen and refilled it with the deep black liquid, not for the first time wishing it were something stronger. Padding back to the table, he rubbed one hand over his face as he sat down. "No, you were just honest with your thoughts. You're allowed to do that," McCoy corrected with a shrug of his shoulders and a self-deprecating sigh. "That kind of transparency with my feelings isn't a skill I've mastered yet. Go figure."

"Well, my parents haven't actually been very forthcoming about what's been going on lately, either. That was most of the reason I was so mad, because I figured honesty could be a two-way street. They didn't agree. And it sucked."

"I know. It may not have been the right thing for them to do, but they were just trying to protect you, Ethan. There were a lot of things that happened over the past few months that I'm not proud of, and I'm glad you didn't see them. I didn't want to hurt you," McCoy concluded, biting off the, '_Like I hurt everyone else_,' that was sitting on the tip of his tongue.

"But they don't need to protect me! I have eyes – I can see things! And even when I figured it out on my own, they still wouldn't cough up the truth!" Ethan half-shouted at his longtime family friend. He slouched in the chair, and as proof that he was not quite yet an adult, pouted gloriously. Arms crossed over his chest and lower lip puffed out in defiance, he looked more like an angry four year old than a hurt teenager. "It's such bullshit," he muttered, echoing the sentiments he vocalized to his father.

"You're a smart kid. There's no denying that," McCoy told the teen as he stretched a sore point in his shoulder. "And that's why I called your dad to have you meet me. I know you're hurt, and I wanted to give you a chance to clear the air. You deserve that much."

"I know I don't deserve a chance to talk to you after what I said, but I think that would be good. You're right – I've got questions," he began as he scrutinized McCoy's face. Narrowing his eyes critically and tilting his head to the side, Ethan added, "But it's not just because of my curiosity, at least not anymore. I was worried about you – I sill am. I haven't seen you in months. And now that I'm starting to hear things, I'm not sure what to make of it."

"You and me both, kid. You and me both," McCoy half-whispered as he turned his head towards the patio door and the sunshine streaming in through the living room.

Ethan picked at the half-disintegrated price tag label still stuck to the bottom of his mug. He let the tension in the room swell, unsure what he should say. He watched McCoy's jaw work back and forth; clearly the sergeant was fighting a similar battle. A million and one questions were rapid-firing through his brain, faster than he could realistically process them. Everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to know, and all the frustration that kept festering like an open, gaping wound during the past six months – it all got stuck right on the tip of his tongue in a jumbled, unintelligible mess.

But as his head spun and his thoughts began to clear, Ethan realized that maybe he _didn't_ want to know all of what was going on with his dad's old partner. The conclusions he drew on his own about McCoy's fading health and his associated problems, which were looking closer to correct the more he learned, were scary enough. Even in the unlikely event Len was willing to open up and go in-depth, was he really ready to hear all the sordid details?

Simply put, not really.

A glance across the table confirmed Ethan's gut suspicions, and solidified his resolve to back off. As a man who was never shy about his opinions, it was disconcerting to watch so much open hesitation march across Len's face. The teen chewed away at his lip as he tried to figure out how best to broach the million-dollar question dangling on the tip of his tongue. In the end, he settled with simplicity. "Are you okay?" Ethan asked quietly after screwing up the guts to actually spit the words out.

The Adam's apple in McCoy's throat bobbed up and down twice – hard. His eyes danced across various points of the ceiling before they roamed back to Ethan's face. "I will be," he replied honestly. "…Eventually."

Sitting back in his chair, the younger Pike thought back on his life. Like a bolt of lightening, a flash of realization buzzed through Ethan's head. His parents' vagueness and McCoy's lack of communication hurt because he _cared_. And not only did _he_ care, so did his parents – about McCoy himself, and protecting their son from the harsh realties of life. In that instant, it became clear that maybe Chris and Lynn had done right by him, even if being treated like a child bristled his ego. His mother told him to always trust his heart, and in his heart, Ethan was selfishly glad he wasn't around to witness the worst of Len's struggles.

Chris always told his son that there was a method to his madness for just about everything he did, and Ethan tried not to smirk when he finally deduced why his old man sent him over to his sergeant's home. It wasn't so McCoy could embarrass him or give him yet another (albeit deserved) tongue-lashing. He did it because he knew his son needed the confirmation from McCoy as much as Len needed it for himself. For as long as he could remember, Leonard McCoy had been anointed an honorary Pike, and Ethan knew that his family was big on taking care of one another.

Tough love was most certainly included in that package.

A genuine, thousand-watt smile broke out across Ethan's youthful face. It caught McCoy by surprise; the sergeant looked like deer caught in the proverbial headlights.

"What?" Len asked gruffly.

"Nothing," Ethan replied, still smirking, and shaking his head. He dipped his chin and bit his lip. As corny as it sounded, he felt like a huge weight was just lifted from his shoulders. Suddenly, the world didn't seem like such an oppressive place anymore. He raised his head and found McCoy's gaze. Licking his lips, he said, "I'm just glad you're on your way back."

"Back to where?" McCoy questioned.

"Back to where you used to be, before all this drama happened. Back to hanging around with all of us, and being the coolest asshole I know."

The comment earned a real snort of amusement from McCoy. "Now I'm back to being the coolest asshole you know? I wasn't sure if I should have been honored or insulted by that one."

"Probably both, to be honest with you," Ethan answered with a minute cringe as he shoved his mug aside. With wisdom beyond his years that surprised even his own teenage brain he added, "Look, I know you're not fine yet. And right now, that's okay. But I guess I just wanted you know that, whatever you need, we're here. Even if I have acted like a little asshat lately."

For the second time in a day, Len swallowed a back a lump that unexpectedly took up residence in his throat. He inhaled through his nose and blinked hard a couple of times. Hoarsely, he said simply, "Thanks. It means a lot."

"Well, you mean a lot to us, in case you haven't noticed. We all miss you. Mom's gotten kind of sick of using Jim as her guinea pig when she's making something new. Since he can't cook worth a shit, he thinks everything she makes is the best thing ever. You're at least honest enough to tell her when it sucks," he said as he ran a critical eye over McCoy's drawn, pale face. "And from the looks of it, you could use a couple of good meals. Or cookies. Or…a whole friggin' cake."

"I won't lie, I have missed all of the above," McCoy admitted, scratching behind his left ear.

"I'll bet. And then there's Dad, who I know wishes you were at poker night. You're the only one who can give him a run for his money. Everyone else is too easy. He said it's gotten really boring beating up on Serdeski every week." Ethan laughed lightly before sobering. He nibbled on his lip, adding, "And, I've missed hanging out with you, even if it's listening to you bitch about your job, your partner and my dad. It's just been…I dunno. Really weird without you around. Like something's missing."

The expression of open shock plastered all over McCoy's face would have, in any other situation, been comical. But given the nature of the conversation and Len's personality, Ethan was entirely unsurprised. Covering his obvious discomfort at being dissected by a fifteen year old, he replied gruffly, "You mean you miss my gentle personality and soft touch?"

"Yeah, something like that," Ethan retorted before changing gears with, "But for the record, I also think you're an idiot."

Somehow, without so many words, the two men managed to reach an unspoken understanding of one another. Decoding the message, McCoy raised an eyebrow at the younger Pike and told him, "I hate to break it to you Ethan, but Jim's already told me that. And so has your dad. And, I guess, so has your mom, but her language was a little more colorful than that."

"Well, then I'll be the fourth one to say it, because you are."

"Going right for the jugular, just like your mother," McCoy muttered with a shake of his head. "God help us all when you grow up."

"With your luck, I'll end up being like her _and_ Jim."

"If you do that, I might just shoot you," McCoy answered with wide, crazy eyes.

Slapping one hand on the table, Ethan pointed then pumped one fist. "Thhaaat's the expression I was looking for!"

McCoy pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. "Laugh it up all you want Ethan, but remember I own you for the next couple of hours."

Deflating, the teen shrugged. "If that's what my dad says, then that's what we should probably do. You gonna make me clean the toilets with a toothbrush, like he claims he had to do in the Corps?"

And evil glint passed through McCoy's eyes. He stood from the table, snagging the two mugs as he went by. Motioning with his head, he slipped on a pair of worn, comfortable sneakers and said, "I could, but I figured I'd have you help me with something better. Tell me: how do you feel about classic cars?"

"Is that a trick question? We watch Top Gear together. You know the answer to that," Ethan replied as he adjusted his Boston Red Sox baseball hat. He followed the Iowa City sergeant out the door and down the small bank of garages behind the complex. Len fished his keys out of his pocket, and flipping through the key ring to find the right one, unlocked the oversized pad lock on the door. The metal door squealed, and the dark, somewhat damp garage suddenly gave way to the brightness of the natural sunlight. McCoy's stall housed the normal things; boxes sat piled neatly in one corner, as well as a pedal bike and random yard tools in the other (for what reason Len had yard stuff was beyond him – the man didn't _have_ a yard).

But what drew Ethan's eye was a large, curtained shape stuck smack-dab in the middle of the cement slab. Shrouded in a custom car cover, the teen wasn't sure what McCoy was planning until Len walked up to the beige lump and began to fold back the dry-fit protectant. Ethan felt his heart pole-vault into his chest. In the same instant, he felt a cold breeze suck all the air from his chest as the object beneath the cover was revealed. He pointed, unable to move his body any further. A couple of un-manly squeaks left his mouth as his eyebrows climbed to his hairline. Giving his brain a solid kick, he asked, "Is that—Is that what I think it is?"

McCoy crossed his arms over his chest proudly and smiled. Bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, he replied with a succinct, "Yep."

"Ohmygod," Ethan whispered as his feet took an automatic step towards the piece of engineering brilliance before him.

Eleanor.

A 1967 Shelby GT 500.

His dream car.

_Holyshit_.

Ethan reached out one hand, but pulled it straight back. "I'm sorry. Can I touch it?"

"Of course you can. You're going to be the one helping me fix it up, so you'd better get used to it."

"I'm—what?!" Ethan yelled in abject shock.

McCoy walked up and leaned on the hood of the car, taking a place next to the teen. "When I opened my mom's safe deposit box after she died, I found a set of keys to a storage unit. Inside the unit was this car – my dad's dream car – with a note from her in the glove box. She said he bought it years ago with the intent of fixing it up as a gift for me when I graduated medical school. Never got to it, like I never got around to med school," he said with a lift of his eyebrows. "When he died and I moved, she couldn't bring herself to sell it. She asked me in that note if I'd finish the project for both of them. I guess I feel like I owe them, a little bit like I feel I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Len."

"Well, if you don't want to, I can always enlist Jim to help me," McCoy joked.

"No! No! That's not what I meant!" Ethan replied, backpedaling as quickly as he possibly could. "Besides, you two would kill each other before you even had the engine out, and then this project really would never get done."

Turning his attention back to the most awesome car he'd ever seen in person, Ethan rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Part of him couldn't believe that another soul was willing to trust him with such a fine (and insanely valuable) piece of classic American muscle, but the other half of him was so excited, he didn't really care. Besides, wasn't it his father who always said, 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth?' Ethan did a quick walk-around the car, squatting and kneeling as he inspected the vehicle. He popped the hood, leaned on the support near the latch and asked, "So, when do start our project?"

McCoy smiled and clapped Ethan on the shoulder. The teen's inadvertent double meaning was plain, and Len found himself smiling at the prospect of his 'projects'. He handed him a set of wrenches and said simply, "Right now."

**-FIN-**


End file.
